


whisky in mind

by 20poundsofcrazy



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Smut, be nice to cynthia bc she's my oc and i love her, but i don't think its possible to write a jack fic without some angst, i can't tag things pls ignore that, it's only in the beginning don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20poundsofcrazy/pseuds/20poundsofcrazy
Summary: All Jack wants is a drink (or two, or three...) but then he meets an alluring, plain spoken woman who seems to be able to pick the thoughts straight of his head and well... plans change.
Relationships: Jack Thompson (Marvel)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	whisky in mind

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to em (@ cheap_perfume_and_gasoline) for betaing, which is probably not a word, but anyway i love u <3

Company was the last thing Jack was looking for when he walked in the bar that night. All he wanted was to drink until he forgot everything, forgot his own damn name. He’d drink himself to death if that’s what it took for the world to stop hurting. He hadn’t thought it would be like this. Stupid, idealistic teenage boy who thought he could go to war and make something of himself. He had honestly believed he would come home to glory, to clapping hands and smiling faces. That his mother’s flower beds would grow the same roses, and the coffee would be just as rich as he remembered, and it was. The roses were still a stunning crimson but now when Jack looked at them, all he saw was blood. Every car door slamming was a gunshot, and he still had to fight the impulse to hit the ground. He’d never been one to push other people down before him, he just hit the ground as hard as he could, chin in the dirt and praying to a God who must be different than the one he grew up with that he’d make it out alive. Well, here he was. Alive. But it didn’t feel much like it. 

He ordered the cheapest whisky they had, because he really didn’t have money to blow on killing himself. Although it wasn’t like he was buying groceries. The bartender brought him a glass and he downed it, relishing how it burned all the way down his throat. He slammed the glass on the counter, winced at the sound, and gestured for a refill. While he waited, he glanced around at his surroundings, checking all the exits out of habit. The bar was small, dim and smoky. It wasn’t very populated for the time of night, a few people were dancing to the terrible music and a few more were scattered at the tables. Only one other person was at the bar, and Jack found that his gaze was drawn to her, like that phenomenon where people can’t take their eyes off a train wreck. She was slumped over, empty glass in front of her. He was sure it wasn’t her first. Her chin was resting heavily in her hands, and her unfocused eyes stared at a mark on the far wall. She was wearing a blue plaid skirt and a blazer that might have been respectable at one point. Her form seemed to radiate misery. Going off the old saying, Jack slid off his stool and made his way over to the one next to her.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve had enough for one night already.” She looked up, and the blue of her eyes in the dim startled him into something like sobriety. 

“Not enough,” she said quietly. “It’s never enough.” All Jack could do was nod. She’d pulled the words straight from his head. 

“You were a soldier,” she observed after a second, still in that dull voice. It was too quiet for the chaos of their surroundings. She sounded like a heavy snowfall at night, the kind that turns the whole world off for a bit, dragging everyone down into an uneasy sleep. 

“Yeah, I was,” he said. “Stationed in Okinawa.”

“I was in France,” she said. “Nurse. They heard I was working on a medical degree, that’s all it took for them to send me away.” Her hand traced absent patterns on the counter. Her fingers weren’t particularly thin, but her skin looked soft.

“Did you want to stay at home?” he asked, and found that he really wanted to know the answer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked a personal question out of anything more than habit.

“There’s no good way to answer that.” She barked a laugh. There was no humor in it, only cold. “Yes, I wanted to stay. I’m not sure I remember why.”

“My colleague lost his leg in Bastogne,” Jack murmured. “I should be grateful I got out unscathed.” 

“None of us did,” the woman said. “Not a single man or woman came home the person they were. It’s fucking stupid of us to pretend otherwise.” Jack could’ve cried, hearing her say that. Instead he offered to buy her a drink. 

“No cheap stuff,” she said with a waning crescent of a smile. “I never drink. When I do, it has to be good.”

By the time their glasses were empty, they were laughing. Jack was exalting in the feeling, the warmth in his chest and the buzz in his head. He thought he had forgotten how to laugh. The woman, whatever her name was (if he had asked, he couldn’t remember now), she was beautiful when a smile graced her lips. Her hair was long and honey brown, glinting under the lights. His gaze trailed along the neckline of her dress, slipping and sliding downwards like he was skidding on ice. All he saw was shadows, and although he could imagine, he didn’t want to. The band launched into another song, and the music didn’t seem half as bad as it had at the beginning of the night. He took her hand, pulled her off the stool. “Dance with me?” 

She laughed, and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. He was swaying a little on his feet, so she stood close to him, wreathing her arms around his body in a loose hug. She was warm, and the fabric of her dress brushed against his legs with a soft swishing. He rested his hand on the small of her back, sitting comfortably in a nook which seemed made for him to hold her. He didn’t try to push it lower; he hadn’t tried to charm her either. Fake smiles got him lots of places, but he felt she deserved better than that. 

“It’s getting late,” she murmured. He let go of her, the skin of his hand immediately missing her body heat, to check his watch. 

“Not really,” he said truthfully. She looked up at him, and although he didn’t think she was trying to, she looked like an actress out of a film, glancing up at the hero from underneath mascaraed eyelashes. But she wasn’t wearing much makeup, if any, and he wasn’t a hero. He was a different kind of knight, no white horse, just whisky and too many memories. Too many secrets. It had been forever since he believed any fairy tales, but he had a feeling that might be different if he heard them in her voice. 

“Late for me,” she insisted. “I have work tomorrow morning. I should be going.”

“Alright,” he said, relinquishing her. She meandered over to her stool to shrug on her coat, it was made of black wool and slightly too big for her. She was halfway to the door, handbag clutched loosely in one hand as though she wasn’t used to carrying one, before she stopped and turned back.

“Are you coming?” 

“Thought you’d never ask.” The grin he gave her as he loped to meet her at the door was genuine all the way through.

Jack remembered to ask her name only after her lips were bee-stung and her face was flushed rosy from kissing. She was warm, pliable in his hands, and the soft moans she made as he nipped at her bottom lip and the skin of her collarbone were ambrosiac, addicting. Her eyes were huge, almost completely dark when she looked up at him, pupils blown wide and the blue deeper than the Japanese sea at midnight.

“Cynthia,” she breathed. “Funny I didn’t ask sooner, what’s yours?”

“Jack.” He shrugged. Jack had never felt any particular affiliation or dislike towards his name. It was just who he was. But then he went back to kissing Cynthia, pressing his lips to her pulse point like he might taste the blood running hot and fast through her veins, and when he slid a hand up her thigh she sighed his name like it was the only word she knew. He had never heard anything better. He inched his hand up higher, slow enough for her to reach down and stop him whenever she wanted to, but she didn’t. He found heat and pushed his fingers towards it, listening as she gasped and feeling his own body respond to her warmth and the sounds she was making. The thin fabric of her underwear was damp, and he pushed it out of the way, finding slick, hot skin. He ran his fingers through it, letting her wetness coat his skin, and she gasped, clutching at his arm. Her fingers dug into his arm, her nails pinching into his skin, but the little flush of pain only made him want her more. He dragged her underwear down her legs, noting dimly that he was naked and not totally sure when that had happened. He was aching for her, needing her, and she was beckoning, reaching for him with every inch of her body, so he allowed himself to climb over her, to sink into the heat. She cried out, arching her back at the rush of feeling. He heard his own groan escape into the air, a low growl let free. 

“Jack,” she breathed as they moved together, clinging to him. He felt like he was being swept away in the most beautiful, powerful tide. Every place their skin brushed together, every touch heightened their connection until he felt air fill his lungs as her chest rose. Her skin was slick with sweat, glistening in the low light, and she was so beautiful, so close to him. When he saw her eyelids flutter and her mouth part in a silent cry, when he felt her tighten around him, he stopped trying to fight the tide and let go, stars sparking in his vision. 

When they had both collapsed into the sweat damp sheets, Jack found himself staring at the ceiling, contemplating the night that had bloomed into something beautiful when he had least expected it. He could hear Cynthia breathing beside him, soft and even. He thought she was asleep, but after another moment she spoke.

“Tell me something about yourself,” she said. He glanced over at her.

“What?”  
“Tell me something about you,” she repeated, raising herself up on one elbow, her chin in her hand. “I don’t usually fall into bed with men when all I know of them is their absurdly common first name,” she added, and he laughed, wondering if he should be offended.

“My last name’s Thompson,” he said instead, and she smiled. Her cheeks were still flushed a rosy colour, and her curls were limp but no less beautiful, tumbling over her shoulders in loose ringlets. 

“Cynthia Spencer, nice to meet you,” she said, holding her hand out. He shook it, laughing at the irony of her polite greeting while lying naked in his bed. 

“Okay, something else,” she said, biting back a giggle. “Something about you that no one would expect.” 

Jack had to think for a moment, racking his brain for any fact about him, obvious or not. She watched, biting her lip, obviously trying not to laugh. 

“You first,” he said finally. 

“Fine,” she said. “I’m studying psychology. I was working on my degree but… then the war happened.” She shrugged. “So hopefully I can finish up my studies this year.” 

“Not a lot of woman psychologists,” Jack pointed out, knowing full well that if Peggy heard him say that he would get a solid punch in the face. But (thankfully) she wasn’t here right now, and he was honestly surprised that Cynthia had gone to college, much less that she was passionate enough about it to keep studying after her life got turned upside down. 

“No,” she agreed placidly, “I’ll be one of few.” Her face was stony, calm porcelain, the wary hint of a smirk dancing in her eyes. He nodded.

“I bet you’ll be a damn good one,” was all he said, and he meant it. “You practically picked my thoughts right out of my head earlier.” She smiled then, bright enough to make him wonder if the sun had somehow emerged in the middle of the night. Then she jabbed his shoulder, a playful push that caught him unawares. He tumbled back onto his pillow, but he couldn’t help smiling.

“Your turn,” she said, “Tell me anything, I just want to know who you are.”

“Alright, uh…” He weighed his words, censoring bits of information. Now that the war was over, he wasn’t sure how much it mattered to keep the SSR secret. “I work for the Strategic Scientific Reserve,” was what he said finally. “A wartime agency, originally. Now we just… I’m not totally sure.”

“So you’re a secret agent?” She was teasing him, her eyes sparkling. 

“Yeah, exactly,” he replied, trying to keep a straight face and failing. “No, really, I kind of am,” he said. “We handle all the weird stuff the government can’t be bothered with, like dumb scientists and their accidental chemical weapons.”

“Their what?” 

“Long story.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Anyway. That’s me. Agent Thompson.”

“That has a nice ring to it,” Cynthia remarked. He shrugged, kind of wishing he hadn’t brought up his work. He didn’t want to think about that right now, all the messy office politics and the fact that he might very soon be out of a job if the SSR couldn’t keep up with the times. No, he would much rather bask in this moment forever, the glow still lingering on their skin and the comfortable conversation that was so brand new to him. Nothing was serious here, just cozy and warm. He could almost trick himself into thinking he might not wake up to an empty bed and awkward, stilted jokes as she tried to locate her various undergarments before rushing out the door. Just because that was how it always went didn’t mean this time couldn’t be different.

He shifted a little, sinking into the covers. Cynthia dragged the blankets over herself, tucking them tightly around her body, curling up into a small shape. He’d seen that before, that defense, making herself a smaller target as if then the nightmares wouldn’t be able to find her. He did it sometimes too, but not tonight. Tonight he drifted into an easy, dreamless sleep, conscious only of her warmth beside him.

\-----

**Epilogue**

Jack woke the next morning to an arm draped over him and a warm head laying on his chest. Sometime in the night he had wrapped his arm around Cynthia, his hand curled on the soft skin of her back, and he could feel the rise and fall of her breaths. She was still completely asleep, and he just laid there, waiting for her to wake up and watching sunlight stripe the ceiling. This was different, but nice. He could almost pretend that this wasn’t the first time they’d done this, waking up together. What really surprised him was that he wanted to wake up next to her again, that by the time her eyes fluttered open, he wasn’t nearly done memorizing the planes of her face, the soft milky swoop of her jaw, the charcoal smudge of a shadow under it. Her curls glowed copper and honey in the sunlight. A sleepy smile stretched across her face. 

“Good morning,” she murmured.

“Mornin’,” Jack responded, leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek, noticing that she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. 

“Do you have to go to work?” Cynthia asked. He paused for a second, weighing options in his mind, and made one of the impulsive decisions he was so good at. Only he had a distinct feeling this one would bring nothing but happiness. 

“Nah.” He shrugged. “I’ll call in sick, if you want.”

“Good,” she grinned. “How about we get dressed and go get some breakfast?”

“Sure,” he agreed, pulling her in for a deep kiss. When they parted, she whispered “We’re in no hurry.”

Jack laughed and kissed her again.

**Author's Note:**

> cynthia was originally just a random placeholder character bc i needed someone to be jack's girlfriend for like five seconds, but then i fell in love with her and ended up here. i hope you enjoyed meeting her because i absolutely love writing her and jack, so you'll probably see more of them in the future :)
> 
> also yes the title is unashamedly stolen from a christian kane song because i started leverage and i love him now. sue me (except pls don't)


End file.
